Roots
by sylviep
Summary: An AU barricade/post-barricade story about Enjolras, Grantaire, and Javert. How Enjolras and Javert are connected, and how they all cheat fate. In which recovery is slow and trusting even slower.
1. What Happened After Le Cabuc

_AU, heavily book-based...This is expanded off of one of my drabbles; I don't know how it did, but it did. The action starts a little while after Enjolras has executed Le Cabuc._

Enjolras entered the tavern looking shaken, his carbine held loosely in his delicate hands.

Inspector Javert, who had remained tied to his post for a good hour now, noted how ill at ease the boy was and decided to call out to him. "I've heard the deepest circle in hell is reserved for those who betray their lords, masters, and kings."

Enjolras stepped over towards him, becoming more confident, and studied him with cold disdain. "So, you've read Dante?" The prisoner nodded stiffly. "As have I. Strange…you don't strike me as a religious man, Inspector," the handsome man said doubtfully, perhaps with a little smirk.

Supremely confident, Javert told him, "I'm not. Neither are you."

The revolutionary turned around to lean his gun against the wall. Turning back to Javert, he said offhandedly, "You're right. But what do you, a nonreligious citizen, draw from such a book?"

"Order. Punishment and Reward. And you?"

Regarding him with blue eyes, almost pitying, almost amused, Enjolras said, "Hope," he told him. "I prefer mine."

"I'm sure you would," sneered Javert, looking up from the floorboards. He saw that Enjolras had moved closer to him, so close he could spit at him.

"You remind me of my father," Enjolras said with a frown. "He was a proud, stubborn man."

"As is his son," Javert said, trying to keep his voice level. The inspector, who was usually so collected and at ease, was unnerved by the young man's cat-like fascination with his captive.

"He'd be angry with me. Do you know why?" he asks, his eyes distant and hard. "I just killed a man… You have hands like mine, the same long, straight fingers and eyes like my grandfather. So dark and angry…"

"So, Monsieur, do you make it a habit to compare men you are going to kill to your relatives?" Javert asked spitefully, turning his head away.

"Do you really think me so wicked?" demanded Enjolras, his fine face twisted in sudden fury.

Javert slowly shook his head. 'No, you're just a stubborn, smooth-faced idiot."

Enjolras bristled. "An idiot for believing that there will someday be freedom and peace?"

"Well, perhaps a hypocrite. Why don't you kill me?" Javert challenged him in a mock-conversational tone.

"I've told you; we can't spare the bullets," answered Enjolras and without hesitation met the condemned man's eyes directly. "And, Citizen, when we kill you, we will shoot you. First; because it will be done quicker and cleaner. Second, because I want to keep you alive to perhaps bargain with. And third, because death by a gun is slightly more honorable."

"Gun or knife it's still murder," Javert laughed, baring his teeth. "Get it over with."

"I'm not an idiot," Enjolras scoffed. "But I'm not that eager to kill you. Do you think I enjoy it? I'm not going to go out of my way; I will wait until your execution is a necessity. I don't understand you; do you want to die?"

Javert hesitated and then shook his head.

Enjolras began to pace. "Fair enough. Tell me about yourself, spy. How did you end up here?"

Javert shrugged. "I exist because my mother slept with a bourgeois trading captain from Marseilles, while her husband, a common thief, was in jail. The captain left her without a thought when he was done with her. Later, she was arrested for a short time, during which, she gave birth to me. I grew up in Toulon; I lived through the ends of the monarchy, the revolution… (or should I say Terror?) as well as Napoleon and the Restoration. I worked my way from the dredges of society to be an inspector, which, though despised by society, nevertheless protects it. I have no family." He smiled grimly. "Now, you- you're from Marseilles, aren't you? You have a bit of an accent."

"No, but I visited my grandfather there every summer when I was a boy, and when I was older, I went to school there. I'm from Cannes."

"Your family name is Enjolras, if I've heard correctly."

Enjolras nodded, a little wary.

"Odd. The trading captain from Marseilles...my mother told me his name was Marcel Enjolras."

"Who told you the name of my grandfather?" Enjolras demanded, suddenly irate. "Who?"

"My mother, you dolt," Javert replied calmly.

Enjolras ran his fingers through his hair, thinking to himself. After a moment, he said, "If you are speaking the truth, that makes you-"

"Half an uncle. If you untie me, maybe I'll embrace you," Enjolras' half-uncle said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

"This changes nothing. The people decide your fate," Javert's half-nephew affirmed.

Javert nodded gravely and the two of them felt a grudging, mutual respect for a moment. Enjolras turned away. "Again, you will be shot ten minutes before the barricade is taken, when we don't need to worry about ammunition any more."

"Very good, monsieur," Javert sneered.

Looking back only for a second, Enjolras grabbed up his musket again and strode out of the tavern.


	2. The Flag The First Act

Enjolras left the Corinthe even more troubled. He truly wanted to believe that all men were equal and should be treated thus, but why, then, did the fact that the man was vaguely related make him hesitate for the slightest moment when telling Javert he was to be executed? He told himself that it was merely surprise and not doubt, and then told himself to be contented with that answer.

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair as he told himself not to think about it. He needed to focus on defending the barricades; his friends needed him to.

"You're nervous; what's wrong?" a voice asked as a friendly hand landed on his shoulder. He brushed it off.

"I'm fine, Courfeyrac."

"No, you're not. You're doing that stupid hair thing; you always do that when you're at all verging on being annoyed, upset, or worried. Besides, a man who is commandeering his own revolution and isn't the slightest bit apprehensive is an idiot," Courfeyrac told him with a grin and batting his head.

"Stop it!" he demanded fiercely. Courfeyrac backed up defensively, looking irritated and hurt. Enjolras ignored him; he was sure it was mostly a show. Surely enough, in five seconds, Courfeyrac moved back towards him.

"Enjolras, what's wrong? Specifically?"

He sighed. "What do you think of the spy the gamin exposed?" he asked him guardedly.

"A sour bastard who's getting what's coming to him for serving an institution that has oppressed the common people for so long!" Courfeyrac responded with enthusiasm. "Why? What about him?"

"Would you still say that if he was a grandfather?" Enjolras asked. "Or a husband?"

Courfeyrac's rakish smile evaporated, leaving a young face too somber to be his. "Did he tell you that, Gabriel?" he asked. "Is-"

Enjolras cut him off by raising his hand and smiling grimly. "Don't worry. He lives alone and has no family. He told me," he said distantly

The young man looked at him strangely. "Then why'd you tell me otherwise?"

"I didn't tell you. I asked you. I suggested a possibility."

Courfeyrac started to reply, but Enjolras put a strong hand on his shoulder to silence him as the voice of a child echoed through the street, singing:  
"Mon nez est en larmes.  
Mon ami, Bugeund,  
Pret-moi tes gendarmes."

"It's Gavroche."

Enjolras moved away quickly towards where Combeferre was sitting, his musket in hand, his face alert. "He's warning us." Combeferre said solemnly.

Soon the child's face appeared from the other side of the barricade and little Gavroche scrambled over and ran over to Enjolras. "My musket! Here they are!"

"Do you want my carbine?" asked Enjolras.

"No, I want the big musket!" the gamin insisted and pointed to the gun that lay forgotten in the shadows, against the wall of the Corinthe.

And Enjolras passed him Javert's musket.


	3. The Flag, The Second Act

Roots: Part III  
The Flag: Second Act

Javert bowed his head in concentration and tried to move about despite the thick ropes that bound him to the column. After a few more moments of useless struggling, he gave up and started to collect his thoughts, preparing for his death.

He was content to end his life here; it was as good as place as any. He had obeyed the Law and devoted his entire life to it, never faltering. There no loose ends he'd left undone, no family to support, no fortunes or debts, no one to say goodbye to. There wasn't anything to worry about. He craned his neck over so he could try to see out the door and the window outside the door. He saw Gabriel out there, lifting a man's coat.

He'd heard one of the men call Enjolras 'Gabriel', and that's what Javert would think of him as. Since he'd heard it, he hadn't able to think of his half-nephew as Enjolras, only Gabriel. Enjolras was the selfish bastard who'd abandoned Anna, the father he'd never known, and the whoremonger without principles. Although Javert had never known Marcel Enjolras, his mother's distraught ravings had left a mark on her child. Although Gabriel might be a foolish, spoiled, warmongering twit, he was still a passionate, idealistic man, following his beliefs even to death. He would never be Enjolras to him.

He'd never had family but his mother, whom he hated and was now dead, so Gabriel interested him. It amused him that he could recognize his own cold and unwavering devotion in the boy.

Javert had never been an admirer of the arts. He despised books, but insisted on reading anyways. But the ending of his own life here was almost ideal, he realized. He did have a little flair for the dramatic, he liked to think. He lived his life blamelessly, still serving his duty. He would be executed by Gabriel, and it would be honorable. And how ironic it was, to be executed by the only living family he knew he had! A smirk formed on face just by thinking of it.

He nodded his head, growing pleased, and then shook it violently, disgusted with the silly turns his thoughts took when he let them roam. Ha! The sad ravings of a tired mind...what was it? Nine, ten, eleven o'clock? If life were fair, he wouldn't have been caught and might even be at home in bed, certainly not tied against this post.

The door of the tavern was flung open, and six men came in, bearing the bullet-riddled body of an elderly man upon their muskets. Gabriel was one of them, and he shot Javert a furious look.

"It will be your turn presently," he coldly informed Javert as they laid the body on the table.

"If any of you are left to do it," Javert replied with a smirk, looking at the ground. "One man down; how many more to go: forty?

Someone kicked him. "Traitor! Spy! You shut your mouth!" the man, a large man with red hair and a fierce expression, growled.

"Bahorel," Enjolras said warningly, pulling him away. "He's already tied up and about to be executed. Don't waste your energy." Bahorel turned away with a frown. "And you," Enjolras said coldly, addressing Javert. "Do you want to be gagged as well?" Javert turned his head away to roll his eyes.

Suddenly Gavroche's voice cried out, "Take care!" and the men rushed towards the door, each grabbing his musket and glancing worriedly at each other. Javert was left alone again.


	4. The First Attack

_Author's Note: I'd just like to add that this is my first serious Javert I've written, so I'm sorry if any of the characterizations have been off. I'm not so good with him yet._

While the men were busy with Father Mabeuf, the Municipal Guard had seized the opportunity to begin scaling the barricade. The cry from little Gavroche brought Enjolras and the other insurgents out just in time.

"Wait! Don't fire at random!" Enjolras ordered loudly as they rushed toward the door, into the sweltering night air, illuminated by explosions from muskets and torch light.

Bahorel pushed ahead of his friends and sprung upon the first soldier and shot him, killing him. The second to enter stabbed Bahorel in the gut with his bayonet. Enjolras's stomach lurched as he watched the man drop ungracefully and begin to bleed to death on the pavement, and another man dive after him; was it Prouvaire? It must have been him; it had been a small man with auburn hair. Enjolras shot the soldier who killed Bahorel.

Enjolras fired each shot from his gun carefully, barely aware of anything else but eliminating the threat to the barricade. His face hot with sweat, he fired again but they were being driven back, boxed in by the National Guard.

A soldier jumped down from the barricade onto the pavement, and Enjolras quickly aimed and shot him. He turned and saw Courfeyrac knocked against the pavement. Before he could react, a musket ball pierced the breast of and killed soldier who'd attacked Courfeyrac.

"Begone! Or I'll blow up the barricade!" a fierce voice thundered. Enjolras caught sight of a shadowy figure standing upon the barricade, holding a keg of powder and a torch flame perilously close to it.

"Blow up the barricade, and yourself also!" said a sergeant.

"And myself also," said the shadow with an eerily calm voice.

It was enough to cause the entire company in the barricade to flee over the makeshift walls like rabbits. As the stranger descended into the barricade out of the darkness, Enjolras was able to make out his features, as he and the others crowded around him.

"Pontmercy?" he said incredulously.

"Enjolras," the Bonapartist said solemnly in greeting, as Courfeyrac ran up and embraced him in relief.

"You here! Without you I should have been dead!" he exclaimed

As the others expressed their relief at his intervention, Pontmercy, who was as white as a phantom, looked at Enjolras. "Who is the chief?"

"You are," said Enjolras, feeling a strange combination of pride in the boy and disappointment in himself. Marius blinked slowly, obviously not comprehending a word of what Enjolras had said. "You're the chief," he repeated.

"What? ...No, that's ridiculous! I'm not even republican," Marius said, looking dazed.

"Why are you here?" Enjolras asked sternly, putting a hand on Marius' shoulder.

"Pontmercy!" he repeated harshly.

"To die. She's gone," Pontmercy said bitterly.

"To die?" he asked in disbelief. "Is that? Pontmercy, I-"

"Enjolras, please..." Courfeyrac said in a rare moment of seriousness, as he threw a nervous glance towards the blonde man and wrapped an arm around Marius's shoulder reassuringly

Enjolras let out a short sigh and resumed his command, as Courfeyrac led Marius into the cafe to sit down. "Bossuet, Feuilly, Combeferre, help me line up the dead. Joly, take role of the living," he ordered.

The four men began to drag the dead bodies into a rather crooked line. Enjolras was the one who found the corpse of Bahorel lying by the front door of the Corinthe. He knelt beside him, squeezing the large, calloused hand for a moment, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. Bahorel had been the oldest, the most experienced, the strongest of the friends, and yet here was his dead body. He dragged him to the end of the line, leaving a smear of blood on the stones, Enjolras realized he'd counted on Bahorel staying alive longer. He'd counted on all his friends staying alive longer, till the end. He told himself that there would be risks and people would die, but not his friends, not so soon...

"Feuilly, who are we missing?" Enjolras asked as the orphan as they examined the faces of the dead.

"Prouvaire," Feuilly said after a short moment.

"They must have taken him prisoner." Combeferre said suddenly. Urgently, he grabbed Enjolras' arm, taking him into the tavern to the room where Javert was tied. "Look, have you set yourself on the death of the spy?" he pleaded, his deep brown eyes shining with pain as he gestured towards the Inspector.

"Yes," Enjolras sternly answered with a glance at Javert. As he looked back at Combeferre, he added softly, "But less than on the life of Jean Prouvaire."

Combeferre began tying his white handkerchief to his cane, and said, "I'm going to offer a trade; their officer for our friend."

"Wait, listen!" Enjolras said.

They heard a manly voice shout, "Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!" and then many guns being fired, and then silence. That voice that should have been saved for poetry of love and flowers and the gaieties of youth, not for last words in front of a firing squad. It was Prouvaire's.

Combeferre's cane fell from suddenly limp hands and clattered against the floor.

Turning back to Javert, Enjolras said, forcing his voice to stay level and calm, "Your friends have just shot you."


	5. 5: Unaffectionate

__

I'm really, really, really, really sorry about all this pointless summary crap in the first few paragraphs. And I don't know what's up with the random Joly and Bossuet thing. They stuck themselves in the beginning, and I don't have the heart to take them out. Also, I kept a bit (practically all) of dialogue from the book, but that's only because I'm trying to navigate through the barricade scenes as quickly as I can. It'll change once I get to further chapters and the AU begins to rear its head again.

****

Roots: Part V

__

Unaffectionate

Outside the Corinthe, Joly had buried his face in his handkerchief, and Bossuet moved over and put a hand on his shoulder. "Hay fever. He always get them this time of year," Bossuet announced, covering his friend's embarrassment graciously.

"Ah, yes," Joly said, finally removing the hander chief and dabbing at his eyes and nose. "I usually stay inside this time of year..." he trailed of wretchedly. The others nodded sympathetically, some of their own eyes felt wet too.

--

In the hours following Prouvaire's death and Pontmercy's arrival, the army had stayed on their side of the street and hadn't attempted another scaling of the barricade. They had been safe in the hours before dawn, and Enjolras had taken opportunity of the ceasefire to leave the barricade to observe the National Guards positions, only to discover how bad their own were.

He returned and decreed that he had four uniforms, and four men who had family to take care of must leave. There was one problem; the crowd could only narrow them down to five. Just then, a man had shown up at the barricade, an old fellow with a National Guardsman uniform and white hair. He offered no name, no reason for being there, but Enjolras sensed he meant them no harm as he laid down his uniform to save a father of three children.

A few hours later, and Enjolras was beginning to wonder who he is. Even he was wary of asking, so instead he decided to visit Javert. As he walked into the room, he found the inspector deep in thought, his head bent forward, his chin touching his chest.

"Do you need anything?" Enjolras asked, remaining in the doorway.

Not raising his head, Javert asked placidly, "When shall you kill me?"

Enjolras sighed, tired of hearing the same question again and again. "Wait. We can't spare the bullets."

"Then, a glass of water."

Enjolras returned with the water, and carefully helped Javert drink it.

"Is that all?" the blond man asked once he is finished.

"I am very uncomfortable, being tied to this post," Javert answered coolly. "It wasn't very affectionate, my dear nephew, to leave me to pass the night here," he said with a small, sarcastic smile. "Can't you lay me on a table like the other?" With a jerk of his head, he motioned to Father Mabeuf.

Enjolras nodded and called in five insurgents who untied the prisoner from the post and transferred him to a table in the back, where they tied him up in a martingale. Javert turned his head suddenly, and smiling ferociously said softly, "It is very natural."

Enjolras turned his head to see what produced the enigmatic remark from the captive, and saw the man who provided the fifth uniform watching them bind Javert with rapt attention. Maybe he'd ask Javert about it later, but for now he let it go. They still had a few more hours.

The men finished tying the spy and exited at a nod from Enjolras. He walked over the prostrate man, and said quietly, "Comfortable, Uncle?" He followed Javert's suite and dropped the half, because it was a rather uncomfortable thing to address someone as one's half uncle. Javert didn't respond, but Enjolras hadn't expected him to.

"The coincidences are almost enough to suggest the existent of a cruel and spiteful God," Javert said finally.

"God is not spiteful," Enjolras replied quickly. "God is just and good."

"God has nothing to do with anything."

"In the republic, every man is free to his own beliefs," the young man said after a pause, before leaving Javert alone again.


	6. Beyond Duty

__

Skip, skip, skip...we all know what happens anyways before this anyways. The whole thing with Javert probably breaks 10 billion different rules, but I don't know any better...

****

Roots VI

__

Beyond Duty

The barricade was overtaken. The insurgents who hadn't made it up the stairs, dead except for Enjolras. He stood before the firing squad, holding them back with the sheer strength of his gaze. But the men didn't need to approach any further when they had their muskets. A few quick questions passed between the trapped man and his captors; it was all completely unnecessary, Enjolras reflected. They knew his role as well as he had. He kept his head raised, his posture commanding and straight, and his eyes open as the group of men aimed their guns at him.

"Long live the Republic! I'm one of them."

Enjolras looked around sharply for the source of the voice; it had sounded like Grantaire, but that was impossible. Grantaire would never say something like that, even in his wildest drunken speeches. Nevertheless the very man now moved towards him, his eyes strangely clear.

"If you permit it..." Grantaire added timidly, as if apologizing for ruining Enjolras' death. Enjolras met his eyes and coloring slightly, took his hand in his and gave him a smile, small but reassuring.

All simultaneously, Grantaire began to smile back, the sergeant yelled "Take aim. FI-" and then turned around in shock, two over-eager guardsmen fired their weapons accidentally, and a deep voice from the entrance of the wine shop bellowed, "_Stop_!"

"I didn't finish the order!" the sergeant roared, turning to glare at the soldiers, who quaked under his hard gaze.

Enjolras blinked in disbelief and then slowly fell forward onto his knees and then collapsed on the ground, only aware of the blinding pain and a pair of hands frantically shaking his shoulders.

"Get up! Leave him!" the sergeant ordered Grantaire, who slowly let go of his injured friend and clumsily moved to his feet. "Inspector Javert?" the sergeant said, turning to face the police officer who'd been assigned to spy on the barricade.

"I'm sorry, but my orders decree that I must deprive you of your capture," Javert said, his voice almost wavering. "Before I left, I received an order to arrest Gabriel Enjolras for treason. He is to be tried in court. The other one was here before the others came. He's not revolutionary; merely drunk. There's no reason to execute him for falling asleep in an unfortunate location." Grantaire looked up in confusion, about to protest. A glare from Javert silenced him.

"Do you have your orders with you?" the sergeant asked, his face hard and almost suspicious.

"Of course not. What sort of spy carries incriminating evidence like that on his person?" Javert said haughtily, reflecting sadly that the only person who would have caught the wonderful irony was on the floor, insensible. "You," he said to Grantaire. "Get him to his feet and bring him here." Hesitating, Grantaire bent down and helped a groaning Enjolras to his feet as gently as he could. Grantaire's shirtsleeves were stained with blood. Javert stepped forward and with some of the extra rope that had been used to tie Javert up, wrapped Enjolras' wrists together.

"Do you think he's going to try to run, Inspector?" Grantaire asked sarcastically, feeling utterly helpless.

"Be quiet," Javert snapped coldly. Then turning stiffly to the officers, he said, "Thank you, sirs" and dragged Enjolras, still unconscious, out of the wine shop and down into the Rue de Mondetour with Grantaire at his feet, looking lost. Javert looked up. 'Why are you following me? Do you want me to arrest you as well?"

"Are you really taking him to prison?" Grantaire asked slowly, still stumbling behind him.

Javert didn't respond except to say, "Help me get him over this smaller barricade." Grantaire, quickly but shakily, hopped up and took Enjolras' legs in his arms while Javert held his shoulders, and they moved him over.

"You lied, just then. You don't have anything, do you?" Grantaire asked warily. "What are you going to do with him?"

"Get him to a doctor, first," Javert said finally. "He's badly hurt. If I'd only arrived a moment earlier..." he growled, more to himself than to the drunkard next to him.

"Then Enjolras wouldn't have been unconscious, and he wouldn't have let you take him away, and he'd be dead, and I'd be dead, and you wouldn't be a wonderful situation either," Grantaire interrupted.

Javert shrugged his broad shoulders "We need to get him out of here," he said, lifting Enjolras up again. "And be more careful this time, his leg was hurt too." Grantaire lifted his lower half again, and they quickly left the barricade behind them..


End file.
